


This is Not How Fake Dates Work

by isthemachinesinging



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthemachinesinging/pseuds/isthemachinesinging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha takes Ben as his "date" to a party at Comic Con. Then he decides he wants a fake goodnight kiss to end the fake date...</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Not How Fake Dates Work

“You’re gonna be my date tonight.” Misha’s words leave no room for a response. Ben sighs. It’s not quite how he’d wanted to spend the night.

“I’m not changing.”

“No one wants you to change. We like you just as you are.” Misha raises his eyebrows at him _._ “We’ll just have to get in on my charisma and loveliness.”

Ben snorts, but agrees. At least to the party part. They’ll probably have good booze, anyway.

The party’s about what he expects, and the booze _is_ good. He and Misha drift apart fairly quickly; Misha to talk to people—friends, acquaintances, potential employers, he’s not sure. Himself, he’d needed to relax tonight, so he does, finding a space and sitting, drinking. Sometimes people come by, and he talks, but mostly he’s quiet, watching. He finds himself watching Misha, his eyes sliding back to the younger man again and again. Misha's charisma is a thing of wonder. He’d definitely needed it to get them in. _He’s a good date_ , Ben thinks to himself, watching as Misha laughs. _Well, no, if this was a real date I’d be pissed he was off talking to other people and ignoring me. He’s a good fake date._ Sometimes Misha seems to feel him watching, catches his gaze and smiles. He smiles back, and then averts his gaze, a little disconcerted, though he doesn't know why.

It’s a good while later, not too early and not too late, when Misha comes up to him and says he’s ready to get out of there; if Ben’s got any other party in mind, he’s up for it. Otherwise, he’s headed back to the hotel. Ben just shakes his head; he’s pleasantly buzzed at this point, and the hotel sounds good. They head back together in silence. He’s surprised, just a bit, when Misha gets off the elevator with him. He’s pretty sure Misha’s on a different floor. He says so, and Misha just nods and says virtuously,

“I’m walking my date to the door.”

He almost chokes at that, laughter catching on breath and making him snort. They reach his door (pretty sure, yep, that’s his) and stop. He’s not sure what’s supposed to come next. Well, he knows what’s supposed to come next, if this was a real date, but…

“G’night, Misha. I enjoyed being your fake date.” He turns, reaches into his pocket to fumble out the key card. Misha deftly pulls it from his hand, and Ben turns back to see a sly grin spreading across his face.

“Don’t I get a fake kiss goodnight?”

Before Ben can ask what the hell a fake kiss is, Misha’s leaning forward and up, cupping Ben’s face in his hands, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. He pulls back, just a bit, and looks up into Ben’s eyes, his thumbs caressing his cheekbones. He finds himself mirroring the gesture, his own hands holding Misha’s face, stroking and wondering at the difference between the rough stubble and the soft skin. There’s a part of his brain screaming _bad idea_ , there are reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this, why _he_ shouldn’t be doing this. He should let go, say goodnight, let this strange moment, this tenderness, be…whatever it is. Instead he leans forward, presses his lips gently to Misha’s mouth again. It’s nearly as chaste as the first kiss, and they stand there for a moment, forehead to forehead.

“Ben…” Misha whispers, and then he’s kissing him again, still soft and gentle but there’s passion there now, and he’s not really sure how it got to this. Except they both were a little drunk and a little Misha. Well, Misha’s a little Misha. Misha’s very Misha, and that’s the problem, the whole problem. He could cliché any cliché with his charm. Definitely. And calling it a date had just been a bad idea, because that’s how Misha the sly little charming shit got the idea to carry on the joke just a bit further and kiss him goodnight. And…well…here they are. It all gets a bit blurry there for a while, and he’s not sure if it’s the drunk

( _just a bit drunk_ )

or the decidedly unchaste kisses that follow, both of them laughing in between kisses and then hands hands all over hands everywhere. His hands on Misha, rucking his shirt up and running his hands over the smooth warm skin, brushing against the knobs of his spine. Misha pushing him back against the door, hands slipping up under his shirt to splay against his back; his own hands dipping down to Misha’s ass, pulling him tight against his body. They move away from each other’s mouths, disintegrating into licking and kissing and sucking at exposed skin, at ears and necks and shoulders and faces, and then more kisses. There is moaning. He’s fairly certain of that. Probably his, though he thinks Misha joins in. They’re still standing in the hallway, and this isn’t the place for this because he’s dimly aware that they’re getting loud and aren’t really laughing now and it would be hard to pass this off as a joke anymore so they really need to…well…fix that. Misha is fumbling around, still biting and kissing at his ear, his neck, while doing—something—

( _oh. the door_ )

\--and suddenly the door opens and they twist in, shut it hard, and now he’s the one pressed up against Misha. Misha’s leaning up against the door now, they’re inside and that’s good and Misha grins up at him, and he says something like _your fucking smile_ and Misha just grins wider and pushes both hands back under his shirt, exploring this time, stroking his way up the sides of his belly, his chest, pausing to circle, fingernails scratching over his--

( _oh. oh that was…_ )

His hips jerk forward, against Misha. It’s an accident, instinct, the first time. The second time, and the third, and after that, he means it. He’s whimpering against Misha’s neck; Misha’s got his hands wrapped in Ben’s hair, holding his head close, one hand gripping on either side of his head, down in close to his scalp. He pulls his hair, pulling in two directions, pulling just to pull, and it hurts and it’s good and he wants to tell Misha that but it just comes out as _fuck misha oh god oh fuck please I_ and Ben’s not quite gone enough that he’s not embarrassed that he’s so gone so fast. And Misha’s still just Misha and cool as fuck, hands fisted in Ben’s hair, smiling, rolling his own hips slightly. Misha’s definitely the one in charge here, and that‘s probably good, because he’s really not so good at being in charge.

Misha’s hands fall to his hips now, steadying him, stilling him. He groans, pushing against those hands, trying to get that pressure back, that friction. But Misha’s strong, he’s smaller but he’s strong. _Bed_ , he whispers in Ben’s ear, and he nods, and they shift-swing-shuffle over, across the room, and the back of his knees hits something and Misha’s pushing him back, down, falling after him, straddling him. He’s all gentleness now, leaning down for a kiss, both hands back into his hair but not pulling now, just stroking along his temples. Then Misha shifts down and

( _well yes that’s a good idea best idea_ )

unbuttons and unzips and pulls off his pants smoothly. Or it would have been smooth, except at the bottom he realizes he’s forgotten the shoes and jeans get tangled in his shoes and Ben can’t help it. He laughs, toe-heel kicks the shoes off, wriggles the tangle out of his jeans. Misha catches his eye, deliberately pulls his shoes off before his own pants. He makes a show of it, tilting his head, holding one shoe up seductively. And he can’t help it, he falls back, laughing.

“Fucking sexy, way you take those shoes off,” he tries to growl, but it gets caught between giggles and comes out high and cracking. He looks up at Misha. “Orange? _Really_ , man?”

Misha’s lips quirk up at that, and he just answers “ _Blue_?”

Ben just makes a _whatever_ motion with his hands, shrugging. Then Misha is laughing too and he’s falling back on top of him, not straddling this time, just lying pressed flush and warm and taut against him and his laughter catches in his throat.

“Misha—“ he gasps and that’s all he gets out before Misha starts rocking against him, slow and hard and sweet. _God._ It’s good, it’s so good, better even than up against the door, he hadn’t known it could be so fucking good, the feel of him there, rocking and sliding against him and _oh._ It occurs to him that it could be better, though, and he slips his hands up to grip at Misha’s shirt, pulling it up until it catches on Misha’s shoulders.

“Misha—your shirt—need—wanna feel you—“ His voice comes out high and tight and shuddering, punctuated by gasps as Misha keeps moving against him. But he leans back, shifts to balance on his knees, pulls his shirt off over his shoulders, then in one smooth motion leans down and tugs his shirt off too, and then he presses himself down again and it’s all

( _almost all_ )

skin and hot and Misha’s moving quicker now, rougher, and his own hips are jerking up to meet him. Again and again and again, synchronized movement punctuated with gasps and moans. Then Misha’s leaning down, licking and kissing his neck and then moving down to his chest, stroking and licking and then _biting--_

“Oh _fuck_ —“ His back arches off the bed, and oh god Misha takes advantage to slip his hands back down, under his waist band, pulling forward, out and down to his thighs, then shucking his own down in one quick movement and _ohhhh fuck oh god oh shit_ had he thought it felt good before? And Misha’s licking his palm and he’s got it down there, between them, got his hand wrapped around both of them, and he’s jerking both of them hard and fast and it’s _fucking good_. He’s thrusting up into Misha’s hand, his cock against Misha’s, pleasure arcing through him like an electric shock, shivering cries wrenching from him with every jerk of his hips. His own hands reach out to touch Misha, stroke him, anyplace his hand can reach, and he settles them on Misha’s hips, steadying him as he rocks against Ben, into his own fist. Ben can feel him trembling under his hands, gasping now, a sharp groan with every upswing of his fist. He looks down and sees Misha’s hand, his soft strong smooth hand, wrapped around their cocks, fingers stretching, and

“Misha…fuck…I…I’m…”

and he arches up, crying out, and feels himself spasming, pleasure peaking and flooding his body, and he pulses hot and wet onto Misha’s hand, their bellies. And Misha’s jerking them fast and wet and slick and he groans and gasps, head back. Ben looks up at him through his own haze

_(he’s fucking beautiful)_

and then he’s reaching out his own hand, gripping Misha’s cock—only fair—and it’s a bit awkward because it’s all a bit backward and well…different than what he’s used to but that doesn’t seem to matter because Misha keens and thrusts into their hands harder, grinding his hips down against Ben. He gasps, then groans deep and he’s coming, too, spurting onto Ben’s hand, his hand, shuddering.

Their hands stay there for a moment, stroking slowly, riding out the last of their orgasms, until it’s too much and they pull apart. Misha hesitates, then leans back over Ben, kissing him again, and it’s still so soft, so gentle, and he sighs against his mouth. In the next moment Ben’s up, suddenly flustered, messing around the side table, complaining about _no fucking tissues what kind of hotel is this_ and then he’s off to the bathroom, returning with a handful of tissue, tossing some to Misha, cleaning himself.

“Good enough till you get back to your room—“

“Ben.”

“—definitely need to shower, you could do that here but—“

“Ben.”

“—probably better if you, cause I’m gonna need to too—“

“ _Ben_.” And he stops rambling, finally, looks over to where Misha’s sitting on the bed, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Ben drops his gaze, tries to turn away. Misha reaches out, grasps his wrist, pulling himself up. Ben looks back at him, realizes they’re both still naked, naked except they’ve both still wearing their socks, and he starts to giggle, glancing up at Misha, who smiles for a moment but tightens his hold on his wrist.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. No. I don’t—“ He doesn’t want to talk, really, he wants…well, he wants to sleep right now and he kind of wants to curl up with Misha, and that’s scary, it’s scary and confusing and he just wants to…go away. “I don’t—I haven’t—I don’t _do this_.”

Ben brushes his hand through his hair, agitated. He picks up his clothes, dressing slowly and deliberately. Misha takes the hint and does the same, watching him as he does.

 “Do you want me to stay?” And Ben stops at that, runs his hands through his hair again, avoiding Misha’s eyes. He starts to walk away, then stops.

“Yes,” he mutters to the floor, and he hears the thump-thump of Misha kicking his shoes back off, then his soft step approaching. His arms wrap around Ben, just holding him.

“Then I will.”

His hands come up to cover Misha’s. He studies their hands quietly for a while, considering, then:

“Misha?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think you know how fake dates are supposed to work.”


End file.
